


The Chains That Bind Us

by missbeizy



Category: Glee
Genre: Anxiety, BDSM, Breathplay, Choking, Dom/sub, Hand Jobs, M/M, NSFW Art, Painplay, Public Sex, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt and Blaine attend a bondage-themed costume party.  Warnings for breathplay, basic painplay, and public sex.  Nothing too extreme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chains That Bind Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pureklaination](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pureklaination/gifts).



> Costume parties are something that they both absolutely adore and always have since the beginning of their relationship—they can spend hours planning their costumes, throwing ideas back and forth, going through books and plays and television shows and movies to find that perfect and completely unexpected couple's costume. 

In college it becomes a little more sophisticated, mostly because Kurt has access to some truly amazing items working at Vogue.com but also because their tastes have become more refined over the years.

The bondage theme is an obvious choice this year. It's in all the deigns, all the major line releases. Kurt finds it to be a bit overdone but Blaine, who has spent most of his life in preppy clothing and bow ties is all too eager to explore leather and knee-high boots and male corsets. It's a novelty to someone who hasn't had to do all sorts of repetitive and uninspired media prep for it for months (as Kurt so often complains). But the party is somewhat work-related and so he relents with a semi-put-upon sigh.

"What do you think?" Kurt asks him, doing a turn in front of the floor length mirror in their bedroom.

He's wearing leather pants, chunky-heeled boots that reach his knees, a studded leather belt, and a single studded leather glove, all black. There's a long chain that hooks onto the back of the belt and he's holding it sort of looped around in front of himself, a bunch in each hand. No shirt, and Blaine wonders if that's the plan or if he just hasn't put one on yet.

The way that the leather hugs his body is sinfully pleasurable—but Blaine can't be surprised at how amazing Kurt looks. He knows just how hot his husband-to-be is, no matter how much or little skin he's showing.

"I'll wear a jacket there, but—I'm not happy with any of the tops I have, and it's going to be sweltering anyway," he explains. "Not one hundred percent sold on the chain, but it gives the outfit character."

Blaine marvels at how comfortable Kurt has become with his body these past two years.

And that chain is just—it's so outwardly innocent in Kurt's hands, but something about it just dangling there in his loose grip makes Blaine's skin warm. Blaine can imagine him wielding it differently, the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexing with purpose.

"God, you look amazing," is all he says.

He suddenly feels inadequate and somewhat under dressed standing there—he'd chosen the role of the submissive; his leather boy shorts, lace chemise, and sandals do even less to cover him than Kurt's outfit does.

"Did you paint your nails?" he breathes, a little overwhelmed and still gawking.

"Too much?" Kurt asks, turning the other way, staring at his ass in his reflection. That, at least, seems to meet his approval.

"No, god, you—are even taller than me now, lovely." The height difference has just occurred to Blaine.

Kurt laughs, switching his hips all the way across the room. It's true—there's a good three inches more height between them now. He loops the chain playfully in front of himself, then drapes it around Blaine's torso and uses it to tug him closer.

"I like it," Kurt declares, grinning. "I like hovering. I like having to lean down to kiss you." He does just that, nipping at Blaine's mouth. "I like how small you are." He licks a path down Blaine's smooth throat. "You look so hot."

Blaine had taken time to style his messy hair into careful, purposefully disheveled looking ringlets. He'd even put on eyeliner and lip gloss that had just the faintest tinge of pink to make his mouth pop. 

"Come on," he says, smirking. "We're going to be late."

They take a taxi to avoid the irritation of public transportation on a Friday evening in New York City, but in the end irritation finds them regardless; Blaine's phone rings just as they arrive and he waves Kurt off.

"Go on up, it's my dad," he explains.

He really doesn't want to have this conversation—they've been arguing over tuition, Blaine's career path, and getting engaged to Kurt so many times since he's moved to the city that he's lost count, but his dad always seems to find new and debilitating ways to bring him down about any and all of the above.

This time is no different. He berates and snarls and questions until Blaine is on the edge of a panic attack, clutching the phone to his ear and shaking.

Blaine has developed a worrying tendency toward anxiety attacks since he moved to New York, and this isn't helping. Fuck, he's supposed to be having fun tonight. Half of the people upstairs will probably be invited to their wedding and he wants to start putting names to faces.

He wraps his free hand around a leather strap that's hanging from his costume and keeps pulling it tighter until it hurts, and holds it there until his fingers start to go blue. The pain centers him, gives him something to focus on until his dad finally, finally lets him go.

He shivers and stumbles all the way upstairs. It's a small apartment, so it's easy enough to slide inside and find Kurt before anyone offers him a drink.

"Honey?" Kurt asks, immediately noticing the look on Blaine's face.

Blaine slides into his arms. "Can we dance? I just want to dance, okay?"

"Okay," Kurt says, though he still looks concerned, and guides Blaine into the crush of bodies that has gathered at the center of the apartment. 

It's dim inside, all neon lights and flashes of white amidst the darkness. The music is so loud that it almost hurts; Blaine can feel the bass from his toes to his organs, pounding pounding pounding.

He presses a thumb to the stripe of red flesh across the back of his hand where he'd let the leather dig in and feels instantly better.

"I don't want to drag it out, but it was one of those conversations, wasn't it?" Kurt shouts in his ear to be heard.

All he does is nod. Kurt nods back, and gently turns him so that his back is to Kurt's chest.

"Fuck him," Kurt growls, wrapping the chain he's been holding off to the side around Blaine's waist, using it to keep bring them closer together. 

"Fuck him," Blaine affirms, trying to sound as brave as Kurt. His dad is an asshole. 

The bite of the chain sliding over his thin costume is a perfect distraction—so much better than the strip of leather he'd used downstairs. The links are hard and unforgiving and as they dance Kurt shimmies the length of the chain up his body inch by inch until it's just around his collarbone.

The beat of the music is rough in his bones, like the stomp of a fist just under his skin, pounding out a rhythm that he can't control. Kurt is warm and hard behind him, naked chest burning like a brand against his back. It's a relief—all the points of hard, aching contact, the leather stretched tight over his smooth skin, the chain around his upper arms. 

He moves in a quick shimmying writhe and the chain slips, catching him just below his Adam's apple in a way that is more of an accident than anything else. Kurt hurries to shift it down again, burying his face against Blaine's neck, but Blaine grabs his arm.

"Don't," he shouts. "D-don't."

Kurt stares into his eyes, questioning.

The way that his breath had caught had felt—right. Good. It had taken all the strands of anxiety in his chest and braided them into one smooth, manageable, distant shape. He's such a mix of unsettled feelings from the argument with his dad and arousal from Kurt holding him, grinding against him in the sweaty dark, that he can't help himself. 

He's confused, and the clarity that pain affords him is the exact opposite.

Kurt wraps his hands around the loose ends of the chain and pulls.

Blaine whimpers, rutting his ass back into Kurt's pelvis—though he catches more thigh than anything, due to the odd height difference introduced by the boots that Kurt is wearing. He loses the ability to breathe completely for the space of a heart beat, and a rush of warmth floods his body, sparking hot between his legs. His head swims and it's a lovely, momentary sense of disorientation, combined with feeling safe in Kurt's arms.

His dad can't touch him here, not even a little bit, not when they're like this.

He lets the music sweep over him, lets Kurt's long, slender body guide him in grinds and twists and circles around the dance floor. The chain is never loose, and at moments when he isn't expecting it Kurt will tighten it.

Kurt eventually crowds him against one of the structural columns that bracket the dancing space and he breathes out hard and sudden when he's pushed belly-first into the cool wood. 

Kurt sucks a kiss against the spot behind his ear. "You've got marks—in the shape of the chain links—red and deep, all around your throat." Blaine whimpers. Kurt lowers his lips to the back of Blaine's neck, licking the oval dents that paint his skin. "Look so fucking hot."

"More, please," Blaine begs.

Kurt does it again, twisting the chain higher, above Blaine's Adam's apple this time, and this time—he holds it, for five, six, seven, eight seconds. Blaine's head goes fuzzy. Shapes explode behind his eyelids. He can't inhale at all. The lack of control almost makes him harder than the lack of oxygen does. He can feel his dick, swollen and sensitive, rise against the leather shorts he's wearing, which hide nothing. 

He tries to press himself against the column but Kurt tugs the chain, then lets it go, allowing Blaine to breathe.

"Not yet," he whispers, rough and filthy. "Not yet, sweetheart."

"Kurt," Blaine sobs.

Kurt's lips on the chain marks around his neck feel indescribably good. He has to just let this happen. He trusts Kurt implicitly. He gives himself over to Kurt's will, allowing his forehead to fall forward against the column. He can feel Kurt grinding against his ass, the slow hungry swivel of his pelvis churning them ever closer.

"Touch me," Kurt breathes, guiding Blaine's shaking, sweaty hand back between them.

"People are watch—"

"Touch me," he repeats, more breath and less intent and all forceful, making Blaine undo the buttons that hold the pants closed. He's so thin that the belt can just be lifted up to get it out of the way. "Don't worry about them. Okay? I'm here and they can't touch you. Only me."

Shaking but powerfully aroused, Blaine slides his hand past the cotton briefs that rest just inside the leather, curling his fingers around a shockingly developed erection. How long has Kurt been—god, he's so big, so hard already—

Blaine whines, twisting his wrist. 

Even as he pulls Kurt's cock to the rhythm of the music pounding between his ears, Kurt continues to tighten and loosen the chain around his throat, making his breath stop and start as Kurt chooses. It eventually reaches a buzzing, beautifully stable cadence that draws Blaine into a lull. He floats a little, eyes taking in the whorls and lines in the wood grain just in front of his face.

There's nothing else in the world; just that column and Kurt's body and Kurt's cock in his fist. Nothing but the feedback between the speed at which he's jerking Kurt off and the bite of the chain hard around his throat, then gentle, then hard again. Pounding. Forcing him to narrow his focus. Taking him out of his own thoughts.

Everything negative and wrong in Blaine's chest simply drains away, down through his scantily-clad body and out into the floor beneath his sandals. It's all heart beat and noise and breathing and sweat, all under Kurt's expert control. Safe. So safe, and so taken care of.

God, he loves Kurt.

After a time, Kurt's fingers pluck at the laces of Blaine's shorts, not giving him time to think, and before he can react at all Kurt's hand is snug around his cock.

"Feel so good, baby," Kurt whispers, stroking him. "Want us to come together, okay?"

"Kurt, I—I feel—I want to be good, but I can't—" Control myself. Decide for myself. Need you, need you to make me, please.

"Shh, I'll tell you when," Kurt answers, moving their bodies closer together, pressing Blaine harder against the column. He knows that people are glancing in their direction, knows that they know, but all that does is make him throb harder within Kurt's fist. 

Do they think he's pretty? Do they think Kurt is? Do they think how lucky they are to be able to watch?

Blaine strokes Kurt faster, harder.

"I'm going to hold this for a longer time," Kurt breathes-shouts against his ear. "I want you to come for me, okay? Let your body go, you don't need to be able to breathe to come. You can just let go."

Fuck. Oh, god. He wants to. He wants to believe he can be that good.

Kurt draws the chain tight and Blaine's ability to inhale is taken away. 

His cock throbs—panic shoots through him like a knife, but it's on the good side of almost too much. His balls ache. His cock is pulsing in Kurt's hand, slick at the head and swollen up. Come and then you can breathe, he thinks. Come come come.

He sees bursts of white light behind his eyes and his chest is frozen—can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe oh fuck oh fuck Kurt—let go Kurt said let go Kurt said to come—

He comes so hard that he can't do anything but buck like a landed fish, hips stuttering, pulse after pulse of white splattering the dark column that is supporting him.

It's the most intense orgasm he thinks he's ever had.

When he can inhale again it sends rushes of oxygen through his blood like a drug; he is dizzy and shaky and color keeps exploding across his vision. He isn't sure of his legs or his reflexes. Nothing seems real until he's taken a few dozen deep, cleansing breaths. God, he feels high.

His hand and wrist and forearm are wet. Kurt had come fucking his fist.

God.

Kurt breathes soft kisses against his sweaty neck. "So good. God, so fucking perfect, Blaine."

And he finds his breath again.


End file.
